Writer's Block
by Essayel
Summary: A writer retreats to a secluded cottage to finish her work but finds that the two gorgeous men in the house next door pose a considerable distraction. Then a promising holiday romance takes a dangerous turn.


Title:  Writer's Block

Author : Essayel

Email: comonwelshgrene@hotmail.com

Rating: about an R.

Disclaimer : All the usual respect to Ms Rowling and do you honestly think _anyone_ would be desperate enough to pay me for this?

Written in a hurry in response to the Hogwarts Boudoir's October '02 – ISLM. This has not been betaed so I apologise unreservedly for any mistakes. 

Writers Block 

Writer's block is a terrible thing. If you have never suffered from it you will not appreciate the feeling of panic that arises as the deadline approaches and inspiration fails to come, the desperation with which you stare at the screen, the viciousness with which you hammer the delete button in order to eradicate the totally pointless and ill advised phrases you have just typed. 

Writer's block is a terrible thing and I had the worst case of it I had ever had, made much, much worse by the knowledge that everyday I wasted was costing me money. It had seemed like a good idea to hire a cottage for a month in a particularly inaccessible area of Pembrokeshire, switch off the mobile, stock up with food and drink and settle down to some serious work but I hadn't reckoned with writer's block. It also didn't help that some of the most gorgeous scenery in Britain was sunning himself on a patch of grass no more than fifty feet from my window.

I had first realised that the other holiday cottage was occupied on my second evening. I had spent a frustrating day, typing no more than two thousand words, re-reading them and deleting them in despair and so felt the need to stretch my legs and blow the cobwebs away. An hours fast walking later I was feeling better, if no less annoyed and frustrated, and I was on my way back when I saw movement on the shoreline below. Initially I was annoyed, the cottage hire people had assured me that I would have the place to myself, so I walked briskly down the path intending to ask them to leave but when I saw what was going on I stopped in my tracks and, I'm ashamed to admit it, goggled.

There were two of them, one standing at the high tide line, hands on hips and shouting with laughter at the other who was marching determinedly towards the surf, shedding clothes as he went. Jacket, boots and socks already lay abandoned on the sand, the t-shirt came off in one decisive movement and his hands dropped to his belt. Now, I've always thought that there is something inherently funny in the way men undress. Unless they are very calm and matter of fact about it, in which case it's hardly worth watching, they tend to get flustered. The sock problem, to sit down to remove them (stuffy) or to remain standing and risk a wobble (adolescent and overeager) or to leave them on (slobbish), is just one instance where a bloke can come badly unstuck. However, there was nothing at all funny about the way he got out of those jeans. One moment they were clinging like a second skin to thighs and buttocks and then next he was stepping smoothly from the heap of stonewashed denim and onto wet sand. Not a wobble, no hesitation. I'd never seen anything like it for sheer cool. And the old boxers vs briefs question was immaterial as neither were in sight, just a gleaming behind that reminded me of the old Arabian song, "There's a boy across the river with a bottom like a peach, but, alas, I cannot swim!" Then a movement drew my eye and his friend, also in a state of nature, was walking down the beach to join him. 

'To feast one's eyes' is a cliché and I despise clichés but that is what I was doing. Nude men had not been a regular part of my life for several years, not since the largely unlamented departure of Dastardly Derek, damn his eyes, and now here were two of them. 

"Compare and contrast" I thought automatically, but there was no comparison really. The first man, he who had shed those denims with such a lissom wriggle, was so tall, so tanned, so broad shouldered, so dark with his long black curls tossing wildly in the on shore breeze, so _everything_ that his shorter, slighter, paler friend was virtually invisible.

I sighed deeply, with sincere appreciation and regret that I would be unlikely to see such a sight ever again, decided to cut my voyeurism short and left, resolving to cherish the memory. It was only when I was approaching the other cottage, a low stone structure that I had rejected as being too Spartan, and I saw the windows standing open and an elderly but impressive motorcycle on its stand beside the door, that I realised that I had neighbours.

It was torture. I had carefully chosen the second bedroom as my place to work because the light was good but the view was boring. No sweeping vistas of sea and sky, no windswept hillsides bright with gorse, just the small garden, a hedge and then rough turf running up to next door's whitewashed wall. Nothing to draw the eye at all. I suppose it was inevitable that that was where one of my new neighbours chose to spread a blanket and spend his time, sometimes dressed and sometimes not. The first morning his friend had come out and dropped a towel over him.

"For goodness sake," he said, laughing, in a pleasantly deep voice. "There's someone in the other cottage you know. Don't be such an exhibitionist."

"Lighten up, Moony," came the lazy response. "You know what they say. If you've got it, flaunt it."

And he certainly did. My response was to turn the little table through ninety degrees so that my back was to the window and to do my level best to ignore them both. This was difficult because I could still hear them, something about the layout of the two buildings made their voices echo and I spent quite a lot of time inadvertently evesdropping on their conversations. They were a fairly cheerful couple, I had made the assumption that they were gay because that's how my luck tends to run, and they joked and bantered with absolutely no concern that they might be overheard. Their conversation was for the most part quite baffling but I pricked up my ears and I revised my opinion of them to some extent when I caught a reference or two to girls or women's names. So, they were possibly gay or possibly not but both very attractive and desirable men. Eventually, in despair, I made a trip to the chemist in the village and bought earplugs which worked fairly well but I still couldn't write any thing worth saving.

On Tuesday evening I was down at the cove, sitting cross-legged on my waterproof, going over my notes, when I heard the crunch of shingle and saw the smaller man, 'Moony' I supposed, walking along the beach with a towel over his arm. His hair was damp and I guessed that he had been swimming in the next cove, a narrow rocky inlet with a good steep rock outcrop for diving but no vantage point for would be voyeurs. Mercifully, he was dressed, wearing a pair of battered grey cords and walking boots with a checked shirt open over a white t-shirt. Rather to my surprise he hailed me. 

"Hello, are you our neighbour?" he asked, smiling.

"Yes," I replied. "How do you do?"

"Remarkably well under the circumstances," he said and tilted his head, requesting permission to sit down beside me. It seemed churlish to fob him off so I nodded and watched as he dropped neatly to the sand at my shoulder, leaned back on his elbows and crossed his legs at the ankles. He was a neatly built fellow a bit above medium height with square capable looking hands. Strangely, his middle three fingers seemed to be about the same length but the nails were short and well cared for. They were nice hands, almost as nice as his face, which was reddened a little by the sun, broad at the brow with a strong jawline and shaded by a sweeping fringe of warm brown hair that I could now see was dramatically streaked with white.

 "You haven't been out and about," he continued, "so we were wondering why we haven't seen much of you."

I successfully resisted the impulse to say that I had seen quite a lot of him and explained that I had come to the cottage to work. 

"Oh?" He turned interested eyes upon me and smiled and it was as though a light had gone on. His eyes were the most singular colour, brown at first sight, now green tinged, now bright gold, with laughter creases at the corners – he was older than I had thought – and his gaze was absolutely direct. Here was a man, I felt, who could be trusted, and I found myself smiling back. He had said something else which I had missed so I apologised and was rewarded by another gentle and amused look from those incredible eyes that flickered over my body and warmed to an appreciative glow.

"I asked, " he said, "how's the work going? It must be difficult to concentrate in such beautiful weather."

"It is," I agreed then found that I was telling him all about my block and my lack of success in breaking it.

"Poor you," he said sympathetically. "I get that sometimes, though not badly, and it usually goes if I fool it into thinking that I don't care one way or the other."

"How do you do that?" I demanded, prepared to try just about anything.

"Oh, you find something to take your mind of it," he said, and there was a suggestive little something in his voice and his eyes that suddenly made me feel all flushed and girly,  "something really distracting – oh, talk of the devil!" 

He smiled but there was a tone of resignation in his voice that made me frown even as we both watched his friend approach.

He could have walked quietly along the sand but running, splashing through the shallows, was obviously more fun and could scarcely have made him wetter. This time he was wearing trunks, such as they were and had a towel around his neck. He called something, dashed up to us and threw himself at our feet, spraying sand liberally over us both.

"Why didn't you wait?" he demanded, laughing. But his eyes were just a trifle too wide and his breath a little too fast for the question to be quite as humorous as he probably intended. The question and expression seemed strange coming from this man – it was more like something one might have heard from a child, worried by the sudden absence of his father.

"Because I was getting cold and I was hungry and I'd asked you to come out five times and you were ignoring me," came the calm, and very paternal, reply. "Besides, I found someone else to talk to."

The vivid blue eyes turned to me, sharpening and assessing, before his arm extended and he captured my hand in his. I'd indulge myself for a moment by trying to describe him but words still fail me. Black, curling hair, blue, blue eyes and a mouth – well, the term 'cupid's bow' has been overused and conjures up an insipid image of a Victorian miss. This was more like those powerful recurves used by the Parthian warriors to punch a hole through Roman breastplates – sweetly curved yet utterly masculine. A bit like his body. Then I swallowed because his face and body, while still beautiful, bore the faint scars of some very bad injuries and beneath the intelligence and laughter in his eyes lurked a deep vulnerability coupled with a faint flash of anger.

"Hello," he said politely. "And you are?"

"I'm sandy," I said, joking, trying to blink it out of my eyes. The other man snorted but he took it at face value.

"Pleased to meet you," he said and smiled a breath-taking smile and squeezed my hand.

It was impossible not to respond. I smiled back and murmured that I was pleased to meet him as well. Then I became aware that his friend had left us. No, nothing so obvious as getting up and walking away. His face was turned a little, his eyes were averted. Without moving his body in any way at all that I could see, a distance had opened up and I recognised it for what it was.

Once I had had a friend, a very attractive friend who's company I enjoyed very much, and I got used to her being the focus of every man in the room and to quietly stepping aside to allow her space in which to sparkle. This was what this man was doing in a tacit acknowledgement that his friend would always be the one to pick and choose and he could make do with the leftovers. I suddenly felt desperately ashamed of myself and the way I had behaved the first time I had seen them both. True the black haired man was stunning but that was no excuse for ignoring the very real charm of his friend.

"Excuse me," I withdrew my hand carefully, "but have you names? Or should I make some up?"

"That's what we do," the black haired one said happily, turning his head to look at the other man with his head cocked to one side. His friend reached out and gripped his chin and pushed it straight.

"Ignore him, he hasn't been well," I was advised. "His name is - Simon and I'm  - Roger." The hesitations were almost imperceptible.

"How do you do," I said formally, "my name's……."

"I know that one," Simon interrupted. "You're Sandy. Hey, R – Roger, can I go and put the kettle on?"

"OK," it was said with just the glimmer of a doubt, "if you're sure. Here …" He held out the keys and Simon took them, rolled to his feet and jogged off up the beach, moving with the unstudied grace of an animal.

Roger sighed deeply, his face filled with concern.

"I don't mean to pry," I said carefully, "but he really hasn't been well, has he?"

"No, he hasn't," Roger said quietly. "He was badly hurt, in every possible way," he closed his eyes for a moment and I could see the pain he felt at the memory. "He was – out of himself for over a year."

"What happened?" I asked, automatically, then reconsidered. "No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

"That's all right," he said reassuringly. "Let's just say that not all  - policemen wear blue uniforms and drive marked cars. Some have to do things they'd sooner forget with people who should have been strangled at birth and, when they get caught out, the consequences can be …"

"Enough," I held up my hand hurriedly, for his distress was obvious. "I can't begin to guess. Poor Simon. Will he be all right?"

"Yes," he smiled. "Some days are better than others but he's on the mend and I decided a proper holiday would do him more good than any number of potions."

It was a strange way to put it but I understood perfectly. My mother had always been a great believer in the efficacy of what she called 'a good tonic' which generally came in a green bottle with a jazzy label and tasted vile. The only tonic I concerned myself with these days came with gin and a slice of lemon. I nodded and a silence fell while we both wondered what to say next.

"Well," he murmured after a moment or two, "I'd best go and make sure he doesn't burn the house down. Good luck with your writing. Take care."

"I will," I promised and smiled up at him as he stood. Then I added, hesitantly, "I expect I'll see you on the beach again?"

"I'm sure you will," he agreed, his smile widening with pleasure. "Perhaps we could …" then he swore very mildly. Simon had appeared at the top of the beach and was beckoning furiously. "Here we go again," he said, his severe expression at odds with the laughter in his eyes. "I only hope he hasn't lost the keys! Bye."

With that he ran off up the beach, moving as fluidly as his friend, crunching over the shingle until he reached the frantic figure at the bottom of the path. Simon was talking fast, his face distressed and Roger reached up and took something from him, the keys I thought, carefully selected one, explaining something as he did so, then put his arms around Simon's shoulders and hugged him briefly before turning him briskly around and giving him a push in the direction of home. I turned back to look at the sea with a great sense of sorrow.

I saw them again the following day under very different conditions. Voices sounded in the lane, calling, and I heard Roger's hail of greeting. I'd been sitting at my keyboard with my head in my hands going over and over a particularly difficult passage so I was very grateful for the distraction. From my window I could see Roger hastening to throw the gate open and spread his arms wide to hug the first comers, then Simon, too, crashed in amongst them, bowling them over with the glad exuberance of his greeting. I found myself laughing, too, as Roger apologetically helped one young man to his feet and set his spectacles back onto his nose while another, his light blond hair now full of sand, fended off Simon's apologetic and rather clumsy assistance. The other man and one of the two girls, both with gloriously carroty hair, were laughing at his predicament and no help at all, but the other young lady stepped forward quietly and helped him up. Simon, contrite and hangdog, backed away from her, head down, until the red headed girl laughed and ran to him and the blond boy followed slinging an arm around the girl and slapping Simon on the shoulder. 

Eventually, they sorted themselves out and congregated on the grass with plates of food and jugs and bottles. There was much conversation and a lot of laughter, though, again Simon seemed a little distant, seating himself at Roger's feet, his eyes flitting from face to face as they talked and passed the bottles back and forth. From my point of view this was brilliant. How could I be expected to concentrate with all that going on under my window? Not that I eves-dropped exactly. I took the opportunity to go downstairs, take some meat out of the freezer to defrost for my evening meal, put some dirty clothes in the washing machine and make myself some lunch. But I did, I admit, take my lunch upstairs to eat at my keyboard and couldn't resist taking a peep between mouthfuls. Outside on the grass, lunch was obviously over and the party was breaking up. They had reached the collecting dirty dishes stage and were transporting them into the house. Roger and both girls departed, laughing and laden, and the three young men also departed – over the fence into the field, tossing a small ball from one to the other with considerable force. The idea appeared to be to avoid the washing up. That left Simon…alone and apparently forgotten. He was sitting on the grass, his arms around his shins and his cheek on his knees. His eyes were closed and he could almost have been asleep but for the obvious tension in his face and shoulders. 

I watched him as I finished my meal, wondering at the difference between him and his friend. Roger had looked like an intensely sociable man glad of company after a time of loneliness but Simon, now the euphoria of greeting had worn off, looked terrified. From the field drifted the sound of amicable conflict and I found myself willing Simon to get up and join the three men, scarcely more than boys to my eyes, in their ball game. _Don't sit there alone_, I thought. _Please…get up_. But he didn't move until a footfall sounded behind him and I quite clearly saw his knuckles turn white.

One of the girls had come back out of the house. She stood looking at his back for a moment then spoke very quietly.

"Will you come in, now?" she asked and, when he didn't reply, she took another pace or two to stop at his side. She pushed her brown curly hair back behind one ear as she stooped over him. "Please. Will you come in?" she pleaded. Again he didn't reply but clearly something was happening here, something of vast importance and I held my breath. Slowly she extended a hand, pulled it back, then touched his hair. He flinched but then she drew careful fingertips through his wild mop, stroking and gentling and I saw him draw in a huge gasp of air. He moved, blindly, opening his arms and she dropped to her knees and clasped his head to her shoulder.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I heard a choking voice murmur but I couldn't tell which of them said it. Then a movement caught my eye and I saw Roger standing at the corner of the house. His fists were clenched and there were tears on his cheeks but he was smiling. I turned from the window, went downstairs and spent the rest of the evening trying to forget about them.

When I saw them the next morning the emotional storms seemed to be over. Simon seemed more relaxed now and even volunteered a comment or two without being spoken to first and Roger, while quiet, seemed to be filled with a new contentment.

They were about to embark upon a really long hike and I suggested that they might like to join me for an evening meal, my excuse being that they might be too tired and hungry to want to cook for themselves. Actually, I was genuinely enjoying their company. Simon didn't say a vast amount but, of course, he could be forgiven for just about anything on account of his looks. He was adamant that my name was Sandy so I accepted my christening with good grace. Roger, on the other hand, was a very entertaining companion, possessed of a dry wit and prepared to lavish vast amounts of attention on those around him. He was an attentive listener with an unerring instinct for when to leave a subject well alone. After that first conversation on the beach he never asked how my writing was going, which was fine with me as it wasn't going at all. Inviting them to dinner had been an impulse that I should have regretted as it would take me away from my keyboard. I had plenty of food but it was the sort of thing that could be thrown together with little thought. They deserved better so I wrote off the day from a writing point of view, and drove down to the nearest village to shop. I had checked carefully about likes and dislikes, I had tentatively pegged Roger as a vegetarian, but my suggestion that we take the veggie option had been greeted with such stunned looks that I went as far as possible in the other direction and bought steaks. Keep it simple, I thought, and you won't go far wrong, but I still spent the rest of the afternoon fiddling with vegetables and making a pudding.

It was a good evening. I really enjoyed it. They certainly seemed to have fun despite Simon's tendency to sit on the floor if his concentration wavered. Roger even teased him about it, very gently, and he flushed and apologised and slid rather sheepishly back up onto the sofa. Bearing in mind his obvious debility, I was horrified to hear that the motorcycle belonged to Simon.

"Good grief, no, it's not mine," Roger laughed. "It was delivered when we were and we're hoping that by the end of our stay Simon will be well enough to ride it again, aren't we?" Simon grinned and nodded and dropped his fork, splashing gravy across the table. "Whoops," he said cheerfully.

We drank the wine I had bought then drank the wine they had bought and a good time was had by all. It wasn't until just after they left that everything went pear-shaped.

They made their goodbyes in high spirits and I watched them go down the path and through the gate. It was a glorious night with a sky full of stars being put to shame by the enormous almost-full moon, that hung like a golden penny in the southern sky, so I stopped to savour it, standing on the doorstep and hoping that the fresh air would clear my head of the wine fumes. As they approached their door I saw a dark shadow detach itself from the bushes on the other side of the road and move haltingly forward. Something about the stealthy figure screamed a warning and I screamed too. 

My warning came that little too late to prevent the dark figure from hurling a flask of some kind of liquid over them both. Simon took the brunt of it, most of the liquid drenching his shoulders and hair, but it was Roger who gave a hoarse cry and doubled over pawing at his face. Simon moved faster than I would have believed possible, spinning around and raising his hand. Something glinted in it and a jet of light struck the dark figure. There was a man's scream and with a 'pop' the figure disappeared. 

"Christ, Moony," Simon's voice was high, almost on the verge of panic.

"I'm all right," Rogers voice was panting but controlled. "I closed my eyes in time. Take me back to Sandy's."

Simon didn't argue but stooped and swept Roger up like a child and ran back to my gate. I was there before him and opened it and he rushed inside and up to the bathroom. I followed, unable to match his speed, and by the time I rounded the doorjamb he had the shower going and was spraying water over Roger's face. I bit my lips hard to avoid a cry of horror. Blisters were bubbling up on his forehead and right cheek and the skin around his eyes was pitted and bleeding. 

Simon was cursing steadily, no trace now of his customary lack of focus, and his face was set and vicious.

"Stop that," Roger gritted. "Calm down. Give the shower to Sandy and fetch the medi-kit from my room. Go on."

Simon hesitated, then thrust the shower into my hands and ran from the room.

"Sandy?" Rogers voice was calming and I marvelled at his control, bearing in mind how badly he had been hurt.

"I'm here," I assured him, hoping I sounded braver than I felt.

"Spray the water on my face, please," he requested and I knelt beside him as he leaned over the bath and lifted the hair away from his forehead. The warm water ran, trickling down towards the plug, faintly tinged with pink.

"What was it?" I asked, my voice shaking as I controlled my nausea.

"Developing fluid," he replied. "You know, the stuff photographers use for their photos."

"But I've used that and it never brought me up in blisters," I protested. "Are you sure I shouldn't ring for an ambulance?"

"No, Simon knows what to do. This is old fluid," he explained, patiently, "stuff that's been used and used and it picks up all the chemicals from the film. It's laden with silver nitrate and I'm  - allergic to it."

"Damn right," Simon was back and pushed me unceremoniously aside, dropping the showerhead into the bath. He opened the smooth wooden box that he had been carrying and withdrew a bottle which he pressed into Roger's hands, then he opened a jar of thick pinkish paste and began to smear it tenderly onto the blistered flesh.

Roger made a soft sound in his throat, the first real sign of pain that he had shown but stayed absolutely still and Simon drew in a gasping breath as though that little sound had been a blow.

"It was Avery," he said grimly as he worked the paste across Roger's brow and cheeks. "The bastard. Did you hear him scream? I should have Aykayed him while I had the chance."

"No," Roger's voice was sharp.

"No," Simon agreed after a moment. "But he's still a dead man. He could barely Disapparate. He won't have gone far. I'll find him, Moony." 

His voice shook and I saw tears on his cheeks.

"No," Roger said again,  "don't follow him. Take the bike and do a sweep. See if there are any others out there and, if there are, _call for back-up_. Don't tackle them on your own."

"Don't you think I could take them, Moony?"

"You could take them, all right, and half the county with them."

There was a short but very intense silence while Simon carefully applied the salve to Roger's eyelids then he sighed.

"I'll take the bike," he agreed, "and I'll do the sweep. But if I find Avery I'm putting his head on a pole."

"Good man," Rogers voice was soft with relief. "Sandy? Can you give Simon a map? A large scale one for preference. Go on, we can manage, now."

I promised to do what I could and went downstairs. Behind me I could hear Simon's voice. It sounded almost as though he was speaking in Latin. 

By the time I had finished looking through the bookcase and had found the large scale walkers' map, Simon was behind me, leaning on the back of a chair, his knuckles as white as his cheeks. The vulnerability was back in his eyes, four-fold, but the anger was there too and seemed to be winning.

"Silver nitrate," he whispered. "If it had gone in his eyes he would be blind. If he had swallowed it he would be dying. I'm going to tear out Avery's heart and _eat _it."

"Not literally, I hope," I said, offering the map. He took it with a scowl.

"No, I'm on my best behaviour these days. Moony will be all right," he promised then turned and gripped my shoulders, "Please, look after him for me."

It was a heartfelt plea and I nodded, wondering what they had said to each other upstairs and marvelling at my luck that one of the best looking men I had seen in a month of Sundays should be so obviously in love with the other.

"I will," I said and accompanied him to the door. "Be careful?"

He nodded and turned and was gone. A moment later I heard the bike roar into life and move away up the lane.

When I went back upstairs the bathroom door was locked and Roger told me that he was fine and would I mind if he had a shower? I had seen the sweat pouring from his face, darkening his shirt between his shoulder blades, and thought that it would make him more comfortable so I fetched a clean towel and my largest shirt and put them just outside the door.

"Anything else?" I asked.

"Scrub my back?" he suggested and I knew he must be feeling better if he could joke about it.

"The spare room is just across the landing," I called. "I'll turn on the heater for you."

His thanks was only faintly audible over the sound of the shower so I shouted 'goodnight' and went back downstairs to the kitchen.

I spent an hour tidying the mess from our dinner away and half an hour sitting at the kitchen table, wondering who Avery was, why he had attacked Roger and what kind of weapon could make a man disappear. I should have gone to bed but sleep was out of the question. My good humour had evaporated like morning mist and the hangover that I was due had decided not to wait for morning but was hammering enthusiastically at my temples so I turned out the light and went to the kitchen sink to get some water. I drank one glass, drew another and let the water run over my hand and splashed the cold droplets over my aching forehead. It didn't help much. I closed my eyes for a moment, hating the pain and willing it to go away. A quiet voice behind me whispered a word and it did, and I opened my eyes to look directly into his. I jumped then realised that he was behind me in the kitchen doorway, reflected in the kitchen window and dimly lit by the moonlight that was flooding the landscape, lighting everything sharply silver and black. He was wearing his cords and had pulled on my shirt but left it unbuttoned, his skin dark against the pale, blue and white checked fabric. His face, so recently burnt and ravaged, appeared astonishingly to be almost unmarked

"Hello, you look better. What did you say? I didn't catch it." I asked.

"Never mind," his voice was barely audible but he was looking at me intensely, a peculiar green light flaring in his eyes and my heart gave a sudden thump.

"He shouldn't have left me with you," he continued, "not tonight, not like this."

"Oh," I turned back to the window nervously, unsure of the correct response. "Would you like some water?"

I swear I didn't see him move but suddenly he was so close I could feel his breath on my neck. He took my hand, the water running over both our fingers and carried it to his mouth. His lips were cold and very dry but his tongue, as he licked the water from the backs of my fingers, was hot. 

I drew breath to speak and that was a bad thing. His scent filled my lungs and my knees went. Simple as that. Suddenly I was breathing air that tasted of him, hot and spicy, with an exciting wild undertone like warm fur and my legs would scarcely bear my weight.

"He shouldn't have left us," he murmured, turning my hand to press his mouth into my palm, "but I'm glad that he did."

Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I should be resenting this. I knew I had given him no reason to expect that such behaviour would be welcomed, after all that you've been feverishly wondering what a man would be like in the sack isn't written on your forehead. But with that deliciously heady scent all about me I put all resentment aside and let my head fall back against his shoulder. I could hear him breathing deeply, and hoped very sincerely that I smelled as good to him as he did to me, and he took several breaths before turning his head from my hand to brush his lips across my cheek from my earlobe to the corner of my mouth. It was the lightest possible of kisses, the barest touch,but I sagged against him, my eyes closing, thinking that it had been far, far too long since I had felt like that. His arms closed around me, supporting me, turning me into his embrace, and I lifted my face up, hoping to be kissed.

"It's not fair," he whispered, his voice husky desire and regret. "Not fair on either of us. I know he didn't mean to, he forgot. Poor Sirius."

"Not Simon?" I murmured, aware that while my hangover was gone the wine was still coursing around my bloodstream. "He didn't look much like a Simon. Sirius suits him better. Come to that you don't look much like a Roger. What are you?"

"Horny," he said frankly. "I'm so sorry, I can't help it, it's a combination of the pain and the painkillers and the wine and  - _you - _ and that bloody thing…," he flicked a contemptuous hand at the almost-full moon which sailed on through the clouds without a care.

"I know. Disturbing isn't it," I said, wondering quietly if he was working his way round to giving me the brush off. "I had a great aunt who used to lock herself in the cellar every full moon. Poor woman. She used to howl." 

"I know the feeling," he touched my cheek and shook his head. "I almost lost it there for a moment. I think it was wearing your shirt – your scent – and then coming into the kitchen and seeing you. I'm sorry, I'll be on my way."

The heady scent was fading, fading as though it had never been and I found my head clearing and a sense of crashing disappointment overcame me. Twenty, ten, no, two hours before if you had suggested that I was prepared to give my all to a chance met stranger I'd have given you a contemptuous look and crossed you off my Christmas card list. Now, I could have cried as he took his hands from me and stepped back.

"No," I whispered, then repeated myself more strongly. "No, don't go. Please."

Roger took a sharp breath and laid his hands carefully back on my shoulders. He raised his head and stared out into the moonlight – he seemed to be fighting some kind of battle with his conscience so I moved a little closer and slipped my arms around his waist inside the open shirt, moving my hands across the taut muscle of his back. For a moment he stood searching my eyes then he relaxed into my arms with a gruff gasp of relief.

"Thank you," he murmured, his lips against mine.

I didn't bother to reply but gave myself up to the smooth caress of his tongue and stood in his arms, the moonlight bathing us like a cascade of snow-melt. Strangely, the icy light did nothing to cool our ardour. His hands moved gently down my back to my hips, holding me closely, and he leaned back to look down at me, his desire naked in his wonderful eyes. 

"Sandy," he murmured, "shall we… can we…."

After all, the kitchen is neither the most romantic nor the most comfortable room in the house for what I very much hoped was going to happen next. I was just about to suggest a move up to my bedroom…or to the couch in the sitting room if he didn't want to go that far… when he tensed.

"Oh, fuck," he said. 

"Oh, yes, if you…," I began but he was shaking his head and looking out of the window. I looked too and saw three dark figures just leaving the other cottage and walking slowly in our direction.

"They came back," Roger said, "and Sirius is God knows where on that bike of his. Is there a back door?" He was already pulling me across the kitchen to the little sitting room where he grabbed the bundle of material, a greatcoat, I thought, that he had been carrying when he arrived.

            "No, there isn't," I said. "The only door faces the road. Who are they and why have they come back?"

            "Some of the people who should have been strangled at birth and for revenge," Roger said shortly opening the window of the sitting room that looked down towards the sea.

            "But, if it's Sirius they are after, why are they attacking you?"

            "Because, at the moment, that's the best way to hurt him," he said regretfully. "Now, we must go."

            "You go," I urged him, "I'll tell them you went with Sirius."

He didn't reply but scooped me up and lifted me over the windowsill, dropping me into the garden and then followed in one smooth movement. His hand fastened around my wrist and I was towed along behind him as he crossed the turf to the gap in the hedge and the stile. Again my feet left the ground and he dropped me over it into the pasture.

            "Roger," I protested in a whisper, "leave me, I promise I won't give you away."

            "I hope you can run in those shoes," he said, "because if they catch us they'll kill you as well."

            With that sort of incentive I ran very well, I think, though I could feel that he was waiting for me. Behind us we heard a crash that could only be the front door being kicked in followed shortly afterwards by a shout as we were spotted running across the open field. Roger immediately jinked to the left, pushing me to the ground and something whizzed past overhead like an angry wasp. Then we were running again and diving over the lip of ground where it fell away to the path to the shore. He pushed me down again and turned and took a few paces back and stood arm extended. There was a flash and a distant scream.

"That'll hold them for a minute or two," he said, grinning with satisfaction as he returned to my side.

"Can't you call Sirius?" I suggested. "Haven't you got your mobile?"

"Umm – no," he eyed me suspiciously. "But it's not a bad idea at that."

He pointed at the sky, something narrow and shiny in his fist and there was a colossal bang as a maroon went off, showering sparks of the most garish colours imaginable. Purple, magenta and acid green flickered and faded but a great blossom of scarlet and gold smoke remained towering over the moonlit fields.

"There, he'll see that and come running and then they'll wish they'd never been born," Roger's normal control cracked a tad to display a little perfectly reasonable malicious glee and I laughed then squealed as he knocked me off my feet. Another wickedly buzzing thing burst around us and Roger swore.

"Damn, there's another one up on the headland over there," he snapped and we took off again, sliding down the smooth sloping turf towards the beach.

"What if there are too many of them?" I gasped as we ran. "What if he can't cope with them?"

Roger snorted with laughter.

"At the moment I wouldn't trust him to pair socks. For pity's sake, he's only been dressing himself for a month! But tackle Avery and his mob – no problem! Let him get one whiff of a – bad guy and the old Sirius is back firing on all cylinders."

We reached the path down to the beach and paused in the shadow of some rocks. Roger, moving with extreme care, peered back the way we had come.

"They're still there," he said, "and with the man on the headland we're in quite a neat crossfire. We'll have to go down onto the beach."

"The tide'll be in," I pointed out and he swore quietly but I had had an idea. "You can swim, can't you? Why not try coasteering round to the next bay?"

"Co – what steering?"

"It's a sport – if you like being cold and wet and exhausted, which I don't. You climb up the cliff and traverse around and fall off into the water to swim the difficult bits." I explained, hoping I sounded braver than I felt.

"Sounds hellish," he said but I could hear the interest in his voice. He peered out again and flinched as something burst against the far side of the path with a flare of green light and a distressingly nauseating smell.

"Bastards," he growled. "Let's go for it, then. Lead the way."

Keeping low, I scurried down the path and onto the shingle bank at the top of the beach. The tide was very high, no soft sand to sit on tonight, the water reducing the cove to a narrow band of shingle between the dark arms of the cliffs. I turned to the south and ran as quietly as I could, the slippery and stinking margin of old seaweed and flotsam at the high tide mark muffling the sound of my feet. Behind me I could hear virtually nothing and turned my head, wondering where he was, but he was right behind me, running without a sound and gave me an encouraging smile.

When I reached the cliff I paused for, while we would be in shadow, a sharp eyed watcher on the headland might spot us and our other three followers surely were not far behind. Once on the cliff it would be almost impossible to duck and moving fast could be dangerous. Roger at my side shook his head at the level of exposure and slipped an arm around my shoulders, drawing me down to crouch beside him at the base of the rock.

"Close your eyes," he advised, "I'm going to make a light."

"What?" I was appalled but he gave me a little shake and I obediently closed them tight.

"_Unus et idem dimittere_," he muttered, inexplicably, and there was a sudden sense of pressure. It lifted and he pulled me to my feet and led me into the water. It was bitterly cold and the waves wet me to the waist in moments, then he gave me a boost, timing my splashing to coincide with the breaking of a wave, and I was clinging to the rockface and working my way along a narrow ledge. 

Dastardly Derek, a hound among men, had insisted we spend a whole week coasteering once, mainly, I think, because he fancied himself in a wet suit and helmet. As it turned out, he enjoyed the posing more than the coasteering while I, who knew that in a wet suit I looked like a black pudding, actually got a bit of a buzz from the climbing. That buzz was lacking now but at least I knew what to do and I remembered this very stretch of the coastline. The narrow ledge widened further along and we would make better time – assuming that the  - others, whoever they were, didn't spot us.

All at once there was a shout from the beach and I cringed, expecting a shot, but their fire, whatever it was, was directed at another section of the cliff. I chanced a look and almost lost my hold on the wet rock. Fifty feet away were a couple of people, people who looked very much like me and my companion.

"Who are _they_?" I hissed.

Roger shrugged.

"No idea," he replied, "hadn't we better keep moving?"

Within a minute I was chilled to the bone and cursing my suggestion. At least in a wet suit, after the initial shock, one stayed relatively warm but I was soon racking my brains to think of any one item of clothing more uncomfortable than icily wet denims. Gasping for breath I clawed my way along the ledge until it widened, then turned and scuttled across the wider section and into the welcome shadow of an overhang. Roger caught me up and squeezed my shoulder encouragingly.

"Now where?" he asked.

I sighed and pointed. The ledge was wide enough where we stood and for perhaps another twenty feet but then narrowed abruptly. It was either climb or swim and I knew which would be safer but …I was so cold.

It was easily as bad as I thought it would be. The waves sucked us away from the base of the cliff and spat us contemptuously back into a welter of foam and broken rock. I gasped as a sharp edge caught my arm, numbing it below the elbow and would have sunk if Roger had not grabbed my collar. We trod water for a moment or two then he struck out for the shore on the crest of a wave, towing me one handed, behind him. As the wave receded, I felt sand under the soles of my shoes and realised by some miracle that the sea had carried us right around the headland into the next narrow little cove. Roger slipped an arm around my waist and we staggered together out of the water to collapse on the narrow margin of sand beneath the cliff.

"Catch your breath," he said panting. "We need to get up to the cliff path and that's a stiff climb from here."

"If we get up onto the path won't the man on the headland be able to see us?" I gasped. 

"It's either that or go back into the water," he said, "and, personally, I've always thought sea-bathing to be vastly over-rated. Besides, the Irish Sea tastes vile."

"Get me home in one piece," I said, "and I will make you the best cup of coffee you've ever tasted."

"You're on. OK, shall we?"

By way of reply, I levered myself groaning to my feet and crunched up the beach at his side. There is something about being cold and wet that particularly depresses me and I was feeling completely wretched. The so-called path was a crumbling stairway where short lengths of planking had been pegged with earth packed behind them, but winter rain and summer feet had eroded to earth away to treacherous and jagged heaps of hard core that caught at the hems of my trousers and bruised my already aching feet. As I dragged myself the last few feet to the top Roger's whispered instruction to keep low was unnecessary – I had no more intention of standing up than I had of singing an aria. Roger was looking around intently and, since he seemed to be alert, I thought it reasonable that I should relax. I rolled onto my back and grimaced as my clothes moulded themselves wetly to my body. I supposed that I should be grateful for having a relatively ample figure. I had always envied the ethereally slender women one saw on television, film and in advertisements but if I had been that shape, I told myself, I would probably have died of hypothermia.

"There is something to be said for a passionate devotion to chocolate," I murmured. I didn't think that Roger had heard me but he chuckled.

"There is indeed. In fact I never go anywhere without it and," he grinned at my expression of interest, "if you get up and come with me you might be able to have some."

"Might? I don't move a muscle for 'might'," I told him and he laughed again and stooped over me.

"See," he waved a small bar under my nose, the wrapping paper flashing enticingly in the moonlight. "If you can find it you can have it," he promised.

"Deal," I said. "Where to?"

He didn't answer but helped me onto my feet and we hurried away, crouching in the hope that our bowed backs would blend in with the many rocks or the spiky hummocks of gorse that dotted the cliff top. A dry stone wall crumbled a little further as we scaled it and a sheep startled me by leaping away from under our feet with a snort of fright. A moment later it bleated and the cry was taken up by others.

"Oh, bugger," Roger said, philosophically. "It seems even the sheep are on the other side tonight." 

He straightened up, grabbed my wrist and we dashed across the rest of the field and into the shadow of a clump of blackthorn. Beyond lay a patch of smooth turf with a huge hulking shadow against the stars at its heart.

"Here we are," Roger gasped, relief in every syllable, "a safe place to hide."

"But…." I began as he hastened towards it. "But it's a dolmen. Three big stones with another even bigger stone on top. What's so safe about that?"

"Ancient magic," he joked and ducked under the massive capstone, pulling me down into the darkness beside him.

The ground was littered with jagged rocks and smelled distressingly of sheep and I was acutely uncomfortable as I knelt at Roger's side between two of the enormous  supporters. My teeth began to chatter and I hugged myself, trying to hold what little warmth I had left in with sheer strength. Immediately he slung an arm around my shoulders and his other hand came up to touch my cheek.

"Damn but you're cold," he murmured. "Here wrap up in this."

Apparently from mid air he produced the black coat he had been carrying earlier and wrapped it around my shoulders. I had one moment in which to wonder how on earth he had managed to carry it across a field, along a beach, up a cliff and through the sea without me noticing it before I realised something far more important – it was warm and dry. I clutched it to me with a groan of relief.

"Thank you," I gasped through chattering teeth then gasped again as his arm tightened around me and a hand clapped over my mouth.

"They're coming," his voice was the barest whisper. "Come here."

He drew me deeper into the shadow of the capstone and spread the dark coat over both of us, spreading the warm fabric until we were covered completely.

"Quiet as you like," he whispered, his lips tickling my ear and I realised, amazingly, that he was laughing.

"Why are you so cheerful?" I asked, just as quietly. "We're soaking wet, freezing cold and being chased by death-dealing maniacs."

"Well, you've got to laugh," he said after a moments thought. "Now hush."

Silence fell and I lay acutely aware of his warm presence so close to my side, and wincing at the pressure of the jagged rocks under my shoulders and hip. My only comfort was that he was obviously as uncomfortable as I was. After a moment I heard a rustle and he breathed a few words and I wondered what sort of schooling he and Simon, or rather Sirius, had had, to train them to swear in Latin. But I stopped wondering about that as I simultaneously realised that the rocks beneath my back had eased themselves into wonderfully comforting shapes and that I could hear the sound of footsteps swishing through the grass towards our hiding place. Roger moved quietly and lay a warning finger across my lips.

"Did you see where they went?" a voice was muttering.

"Keep it down, you fool, he's got the ears of an wolf – he can tell your shoe size from the sound of your footsteps. I saw them run up the path in this direction."

"What about the dolmen?"

"What about it? It's dangerous, he'd be a fool to go anywhere near it. You know what they say!"

The was a grunt as the other man agreed with him and I felt Roger begin to shake with silent laughter again so I opened my mouth and bit his finger. He flinched, laughing even harder, so I thought that I'd sober him up and stroked his fingertip with my tongue, sucking gently. He stopped laughing.

"We ought to have a look at least," said the first voice but the second cut across with a hissing demand for silence and I heard the approaching snarl of an engine.

"Black," the sound of panic quivered in his voice. "Let Avery do his own dirty work, I'm not facing that mad man again."

I didn't hear what his companion replied as they fled for Roger had turned towards me and pulled his hand from my mouth replacing it immediately with his lips. It was a strong and demanding kiss, more assertive than I would have expected from a man I had up to then considered as gentle, but – it was very nice. When he moved away, I drew in a long breath.

"Oh," I said.

"I'm – sorry," his breath was a little fast, "but you shouldn't do something like that unless you mean it."

"I – I apologise," I had suddenly remembered Sirius and his distress. "I shouldn't have and in the kitchen earlier – oh, you must be frantic about your – about Simon – Sirius – your  whatever?"

"My whatever?" Roger started to laugh again. "I must tell him that. He'll be mortified."

"You mean  you're not – I thought you were – involved."

"Oh, we're involved all right, sometimes I think we might as well be married the way we have had to look after each other over the years but no – we're not – we're just very, very good friends and he has been very – ill and needs someone to cling to. Even a big bloke like Sirius needs a hug from time to time. Especially on days when he's not sure whether he should be on two legs or four."

"I  - see, I think" I sighed, "it's just that his eyes follow you wherever you go, like – like a dog."

"Very astute of you," Roger grunted.  His breathing was still a little rough and while he had moved he hadn't moved far. The coat over us had slipped aside and the moon was shining on his face so I could see how intent his gaze was. He was smiling otherwise I would have been really uneasy when he hitched himself up on one elbow and looked down at me.

"Well?" he asked and the challenge was clear in his voice. "Does that make a difference?"

"You mean, does the fact that you are not gay but a tender, sensitive, caring friend make you more attractive?" I thought it best to be up front about things. 

He looked a little disconcerted.

"Well, yes," he said.

"No," I told him, definitely, then reached up and cupped his face between my hands, "because I don't think that there's anything that could make you more attractive than you already are."

He growled then, absolutely growled, whether in delight, annoyance or just plain lust I didn't have time to work out. His mouth against mine murmured unintelligible words and one hand raised something that glinted in the moonlight. It might almost have been magic after that, the way my clothes melted under his hands to be found later, neatly folded, dry and clean, the way the air warmed in the hollow beneath the capstone as it filled with the same clean wild spicy tang that had made my bones turn to water in the kitchen. Even so, I laughed at his growl and possibly that was a bad idea because he grew very sombre and made it perfectly clear that this was his show and he was running things his way. It was a gentle taking, but a taking it was. Those square hands had quite a grip, one capable of confining both my wrists in one of his warm palms when I tried to move to touch him.

"No," he murmured, "it's my turn."

 For somebody who was normally so articulate he wasn't one for pillow talk but just as he was testing the fit of his narrow loins against the curve of my hips he did pause to ask me something.

"What is your name?" he demanded.

"Elaine, why?"

"Oh, pleased to meet you Elaine. It gives me something to shout at the crucial moment." 

Then he moved into me and for a while I forgot who I was, who he was and everything else but the warmth and the pleasure and the light of the moon, turning to gold as it sank in the west, striking sparks of fire from his incredible eyes.

After a time, quite a long time as I recall, he did shout my name but by then I was incapable of anything beyond a weak whisper.

"Wild man," I whispered, weakly.

"You have no idea," he replied smugly.

It was close to dawn before I remembered a question I had thought to ask. By then we were no longer under the capstone but on top of it, having moved up there, as he said to catch the last of the moonlight, though I had the distinct feeling that he wanted to be sure it had really gone. At one point our activities under the dark stone had been disturbed by the sound of a loud explosion and he had leaped to his feet, almost cracking his skull and stood staring off to the north in an agony of apprehension that only ended when the sky lit up with streamers of red and gold fire. He gave a whoop throwing his arms into the air like a schoolboy at a rugger match and I wondered what sort of pole Sirius had found to put Avery's head on then he turned to me with a grin.

"You can come out now," he said. "No more bad guys and besides – I'd rather like to move to the upper deck."

"But I'm comfortable," I protested.

"Oh, come on, it'll be fun," he stooped slightly, grinning and extending his hand. "Trust me," he said and I thought that if Aladdin had been standing on his magic carpet looking like that, all gleaming muscle and impressive erection, Princess Jasmine wouldn't have needed asking twice.

Neither did I and we sat together wrapped in his coat and he formally and ceremoniously presented me with the little bar of chocolate that I had forgotten to look for earlier.

"Bear in mind that I usually have one about my person," he told me, "just in case you get peckish."

I laughed and when I broke the bar in half and tried to give him his share he declined.

"That's not what I'm hungry for," he said, and gave me a look that made my bones melt again. 

But eventually the light began to grow and so did my sense of responsibility.

"What did they mean?" I asked, turning onto my front to rest my chin on his breast bone. He opened sleepy eyes and smiled.

"Who?"

"Those men last night. The ones who came looking for us. When they said that this place was dangerous?"

"Oh, that," his voice was so casual I knew immediately that he was spinning me a line. "This is a place of old wild magic, a safe haven for the hunted and a danger to those who come here with ill-intent. Even so, it's not a place to be taken lightly. The legend has it that if you spend the night here you wake as either a poet or a madman."

"Good grief," I said, "which do you think you'll be?"

"We'll be all right," he scoffed. "Why do you think I didn't let you get any sleep?"

The light grew and the sun rose to a wild, windy morning with streamers of high white cloud replacing the red and gold of the night, and we knew that we would have to return to our homes and our beds and respectability. It still took time, what with pausing to kiss and help each other dress, then we had to walk around by the lane, rather than cut across the beach and risk another wetting. The sun was well up by the time we approached their cottage and saw the old motorcycle propped up beside the gate.

"Damn, he's going to be really mad," Roger said, grimly.

"Why?" I asked, looking apprehensively at the closed door and remembering Sirius' fury of the previous evening.

"Because I've got the keys in my pocket," Roger explained. "I wonder where he is?"

We didn't have far to look. My door had been kicked in, as we had guessed and Sirius was sound asleep on the floor on the hearthrug, curled into a surprisingly small ball for such a tall man. I would have woken him but Roger shook his head and dropped the black coat over him and took my hand and led me to the stairs.

"I think he's got the right idea," he said and I had to agree, glancing back to see how Sirius had turned and was laying with his cheek resting on crossed wrists.

"I still think you should have let me wake him up so he could sleep on the couch," I protested.

Roger chuckled and squeezed my hand.

"That would never do. He knows he's not allowed on the furniture. Poor Sirius."

"Sirius does suit him much better than Simon," I said, climbing the stairs wearily.

"Oh," he hesitated, "my name's Remus."

"Remus," I tried it out. "Yes, that suits you too. But – you made a bloody fine Roger."

We were awoken with the sun high in the sky, by the scent of coffee and fried bacon and a cheerful voice calling "Rise and shine."

Remus  groaned, his face buried against the nape of my neck, and tightened  the arm around my waist.

"Have you no compassion? No shame?" he grumbled.

"No, but I do have coffee and bacon sandwiches. Come on, Moony. Show a leg!"

Remus groaned again but turned over and sat up, gentleman that he was, first hitching the sheets up over my shoulders. I tried to keep my eyes shut and pretend that I wasn't there but Sirius wasn't having that.

"Come on out, Sandy," he said. "Or shall I come in there and get you?"

Remus sighed and stroked my shoulder.

"He means it," he  confirmed so I reached for my dressing gown and slipped into it before sitting up.

Sirius gave us both a beaming smile. He had a tray with steaming mugs and a plate balanced on one hand with a tea towel thrown across his forearm waiter-style but there the resemblance ended. His jeans were ripped and so were his knuckles and his hair was on end but his expression was one of total happiness and peace.

Remus let out a breath in a great woof of relief. He was smiling and didn't object even when Sirius seated himself at the foot of the bed and swung his legs up onto the counterpane with a terse, "Budge up, Moony."

With coffee mugs warming our hands and a plate full of thick bacon sandwiches within easy reach we sat back and smiled at each other.

"Well," Sirius said after a moment or two. "I don't think I need to ask how you two spent the night. Remus looks shagged out and Sandy…" he paused and smiled in such a way that I had no doubt that I looked pretty much the same. I blushed and took cover in my mug.

"Don't be so cheeky," Remus complained. "Come on then. I know you're dying to tell us. Did you get him?"

"Avery, no," Sirius shook his head sadly, "for someone with such a bad limp he can run hellish fast but one day I'll get him and smash his other knee-cap. I got most of the small fry though. They scattered like sheep but they didn't get away and they're being processed now. Not happy people at all." He gave a deep sigh and rested his head back against the bars at the foot of the bed. "It was almost as much fun as chasing chickens."

I ate my breakfast while they exchanged information, watching them both with growing affection. In some ways they were like a married couple, finishing each others sentences, breaking off what they were saying with a nod or a look. There was a lot that they weren't saying, probably because of me, but I didn't mind because Remus had slipped his arm around me again and Sirius was smiling at me with lazy eyes – a combination of circumstances that was ruinous for the libido.

After breakfast, and it must have been close to two o'clock by then, they both sighed.

"Moon'll be up in four hours," Sirius murmured. 

"I know," Remus sounded as though it was a dental appointment. He caught Sirius eye and jerked his head towards the door. Sirius smirked and retrieved the tray and mugs and departed and Remus turned to me with a rueful smile.

"He's better," he said. "That's all it took. We've been cosseting and comforting and protecting him and worrying that he might get stressed when all he really needed was a chance to get out there and kick some arse. Had to be the right arses, of course, couldn't set him loose on the general public."

"You'll be leaving now, won't you?" I asked, reaching up to run my fingertips across his brow and down his cheekbone. It was suddenly very important to me to remember exactly what he had looked like in the moonlight – it was something I wanted to remember for the rest of my life.

"Yes," he said, catching my hand and pressing it to his cheek. "But I won't be going far. I – I can't see you tonight or, maybe, tomorrow, but we've got the cottage for the rest of the month, just like you, so I will be about – if you want to see me again?"

"Oh, god, yes," I said and sighed as he opened my dressing gown and nuzzled down between my breasts. I cradled his head against my heart for a moment or two then gently pushed him away.

"You'd best go and look after your friend before he kicks the wrong arse," I suggested. He grinned and rolled out of bed and stood up in the sunlight, stretching and posing quite shamelessly. Even after the exciting night we had had he was plainly ready to start all over again and I closed my eyes with a groan of self denial.

"Go now," I begged, "before my resolve weakens."

"I'll see you on Sunday," he promised, "do you think it will have weakened by then?"

"Without a doubt," I said and sat and hugged my knees while he found his clothes and put them on, then went to the door. He opened it and paused with his hand on the latch.

"Sunday?" he said.

"Sunday," I agreed and he left, closing the door behind him.

Much later, showered and dressed, I sat at my keyboard and gathered my thoughts and began to type. I could hear voices from the garden below and smiled as Sirius' rose to a yelp.

"You _what_ on a dolmen?"

There was a low comment or two from Remus and then another bark of laughter.

 "Don't laugh," Remus chided. "Writer's block is a terrible thing to have. I hoped that it might ease if she had a whole load of new images to think about."

As I listened I continued to type. I should have been annoyed, I suppose, but I had realised by then that these were two with no secrets and as for my block – my fingers flew over the keys.

"Hey, Moony, it's nearly time," Sirius said and a sombre note in his voice made me stop and listen. "Are we running tonight?"

"No," Remus sounded regretful, then stifled a huge yawn, "I doubt that I could manage much more than a stagger. I'll go down and you can bar the door. I think I'll probably sleep. Why don't you take Sandy for a spin on your bike? You could go to that pub in the village."

"Hey, good idea." There was a moment of silence.

"No," Remus voice sounded severe. "Bad Sirius."

"I was only thinking."

"I know what you were thinking, I can read you like a book, or, in this case, one of those glossy magazines they keep on the top shelf in the newsagents. Remember, I saw her first, so don't you – bother her."

"Remus, give me a break."

"Okay, major or minor bone?" 

Their voices wrangled around to the front of the house and out of earshot and I started typing again, with an extremely broad smile on my face.

As I typed I thought of all the new images that, Remus had been quite right, were inspiring me. Wet sand, shingle crunch, slither pop of seaweed under foot, icy wash of  waves, sting of salt in eyes and nose, moonset  splendour in pearl and silver, golden eyes kindling with passion, grip of hands, caress of lips, hot, wet squirm of tongue, salt/sweet taste of sweat, strength of back and power of loins and the pleasurable pain of total invasion. "Trust me," he had said, like some silly cartoon hero, and I did. I trusted that I would see him on Sunday. 

But in the meantime I still had my work to do, whether Sirius came to bother me or not, and my writer's block was gone. Now my only problem was how to take these fabulous sensations, his beautiful gift, and work them into my doctoral thesis on intestinal parasites in sheep.


End file.
